LITMIR.BIZ

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with a sore paw, so she took off to visit Franklin and Beatrice.” And he’d be joining her in a week. It was killing him to wait, but he was afraid of a setback if he put too much stress on his knee too soon.

      “Yes, she mentioned that you didn’t tolerate much coddling. What was it she said…hmm, something like you’d have the entire Jacks organization looking out for you. That you wouldn’t need her.”

      Buck rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. His head ached. It wasn’t the concussion. His mother always gave him a headache. “How’s Pearce’s campaign going?”

      “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. Pearce is preoccupied with his campaign, which is a complication. It makes us shorthanded at Belle Pointe.”

      “Ma, you’re not trying to tell me he ever gets his hands dirty at planting season or any other time, are you?” he asked.

      “I can only tell you I miss every pair of hands, especially now that Will Wainwright gave notice.”

      “Will has quit?” Buck’s mouth fell open.

      “Retired.” She gave an offended huff. “He gave me some excuse about wanting to see more of his grandchildren. It was terribly inconvenient.”

      “Holy sh—Um…holy schmolie,” he breathed. Wainwright had been her right-hand man for fifteen years. “Now there’s a pair of hands you’ll definitely miss.”

      “I must agree with you there,” she said. “However, I think I’ve resolved the problem, Buck. With Pearce caught up in this campaign and you idle for the season, the stars seem aligned.”

      “The stars seem aligned?” Now what, he wondered.

      “Yes, indeed. We’re in a bind at Belle Pointe and you always understood what was required to get the crops planted and maintained until it was time to start picking. You’re well able to step right into Wainwright’s shoes.”

      “Ma, if you’re asking what I think you’re asking, forget it. I’ve got my hands full with rehab. I—”

      “Added to that,” she went on, “it looks odd that you’re in St. Louis and your wife’s here. People talk. Do you really need more bad publicity, Buck? After that boy, Casey—”

      “Ma, it’s not a good time for me,” he argued, keeping his travel plans to himself. If she knew he was heading for Tallulah, she’d probably meet him at the city limits on a tractor and hog-tie him to the nearest cotton field.

      She sighed. “I expected just that reaction from you, Buck, but I also know that after you think about it, in the end you’ll do your duty. You love Belle Pointe. Don’t deny it. You won’t be able to resist helping out. It’s what your father would want you to do.”

      Somehow, he managed to keep his outrage in check. She had her nerve mentioning his father. Fifteen years ago when John Whitaker died, Buck had wanted nothing more than to step in and fill his father’s shoes, but she’d had different plans then. “I appreciate the problem you’re having, Ma, but I’ve got other priorities right now. You need to find a good manager to replace Will. As for somebody to step into Pearce’s shoes, I can’t think it would be too difficult since he never knew jack shit about growing cotton anyway.”

      “I don’t appreciate your vulgarity, Buck,” she said frostily. “And I might remind you of your responsibility as a Whitaker.”

      “What’s different now from the day Dad died, tell me that. You reminded me then that Pearce was the primary heir to Belle Pointe, that when I finished my degree, I was to forget coming home to grow cotton.”

      “It worked out well, didn’t it? You had excellent prospects for a career in professional baseball and you made it. I knew you could.”

      “After about ten miserable years in the minors, Ma!”

      “And would you have tried as hard if your real goal was simply to return to Belle Pointe?” she replied. “I think not.”

      His laugh was short and mirthless. “You’re telling me you practically disinherited me for my own good? And now, because Pearce is temporarily distracted, I should forget all that?” He stopped at a sudden thought. “What if he wins that senatorial seat as you predict and then decides he doesn’t want to play at being a gentleman farmer anymore? What if he wants to live most of the year in the state capitol? What then, Ma?”

      “Pearce knows where his duty lies. Which is exactly what I expect from you. To use a baseball metaphor, I expect you to step up to the plate, Buck. Do your duty.”

      He was shaking his head at the gall of her. “Again, no disrespect, Mother, but you’ll have to find another pinch hitter.”

      It was almost a week after interviewing Pearce that Anne was able to secure an interview with Jack Breedlove and nothing about the man struck her as pitiful. Far from it, Breed-love was tall and lean with severe features that were not quite handsome, but powerfully male. She was used to world-class athletes with an excess of testosterone and this man, she thought, would fit right in with Buck and his teammates.

      The slight limp was a souvenir of his tour of duty in the Gulf War, she thought, as he came around his desk to greet her, but she quickly forgot his handicap as he took her hand and smiled down at her from striking green eyes. “Anne Whitaker. I feel as if I know you considering how often I’ve seen you in the Jacks VIP box. Welcome to Tallulah.”

      “Thank you.” A little flustered, she took the seat he offered. “I know you’re busy, so I won’t take up too much of your time. As I mentioned when I phoned you, I thought it would be interesting to contrast the platforms of the two leading senate candidates, especially since you’re both from Tallulah.”

      He didn’t return to his chair, but propped one hip casually on the side of his desk and crossed his feet at the ankles. “I’m up for that, of course, but first, how’s Buck? Bad news, that accident. I’ve been following it in the media. Word is he’s out for the season.”

      He probably knew as much as she. By refusing Buck’s calls, she relied on Marcie for updates on his injuries. “He’s undergoing pretty intensive physical therapy,” she said. “And yes, he’s out for the season.”

      “Rotten luck,” he said. After a pause, he added, “We played baseball together in high school. He pitched. I played shortstop.”

      “The thinking man’s position,” she said, smiling.

      “I don’t know about that, but we made a good team.” He gazed at his feet, remembering. “Those were good times. I was thrilled when he finally made it into the majors.”

      “Not as much as Buck, I bet,” she said.

      He turned his head to look at her. “And now here you are reporting on an obscure political race in Mississippi while he’s recuperating in St. Louis. What’s wrong with that picture?”

      She pulled a tape recorder from her bag and set it on his desk. After checking to see that it was on, she asked, “Is that how you see the position as state senator in this district…obscure?”

      He paused with a look of chagrin. “I apologize if I trespassed into personal territory.”

      “Apology accepted.” She let her gaze wander to the window. Then, because she liked him, she said, “For what it’s worth, Chief Breedlove, Buck belongs to his public, but I don’t. So I’m just having a little break from all that while I’m here in Tallulah.”

      It was probably more than he wanted—or needed—to know, but it was the explanation she planned to give while in Tallulah. He wouldn’t be the only person who would ask outright why she wasn’t with Buck.

      He straightened from his desk. “Call me Jack,” he said.

      She smiled. “Okay, Jack.” While he went back to his chair, she checked to see the tape was still running, then opened the flap of her notepad and clicked

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